


We’re Just Another Star in a World of a Million Stars

by Slytheringirle



Series: Just A Little Something [7]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, there really is nothing to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 11:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slytheringirle/pseuds/Slytheringirle
Summary: It’s three in the morning, Enjolras is asleep, and Grantaire’s demons decide it’s time to rise. (There are no actually demons here, it’s a metaphor)





	We’re Just Another Star in a World of a Million Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on my own thoughts, it’s nothing dark in particular, just pretty realistic in my opinion.  
.  
And this is gonna be a long disclaimer, so feel free to skip.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter (but imagine if I did), the Shadowhunter Chronicles, The Maze Runner series, The Hunger Games, Divergent, Twilight, Percy Jackson, Lord of the Rings, the Rold Dahl books, Diary of a Wimpy Kid or Dork Diaries.

The clock across the room was reading three a.m, illuminated by the soft moonlight that had managed to sneak through the drapes. 

Grantaire looked at Enjolras, lying beside him soundly asleep, and felt a familiar warmth spread through him. Enjolras looked like an angel with his hair spread beneath him, his eyelashes almost touching his cheeks and rosy red lips slightly parted, letting out the occasional snore. He closed his eyes, allowing the bubbling self-hatred well up in his chest. 

He had everything he’d ever wanted; a loving boyfriend - _ the _ loving boyfriend- friends that would drop everything to be at his side in a blink of an eye, and a steady money source, why was he unhappy then? Most of the time he was, enjoying being with Enjolras and the amis, relishing in the peacefulness painting provided, but it’s at these times, when he was all alone, that the demons surfaced.

What was he doing it all for? The living, loving, what was the point? He could die at any given moment and everything he’d ever done would be for naught. He could die at twenty five, well before his time, and the world will still spin. People will go on with their lives, nothing will come to a still. A person or two may weep over him, but soon everyone will forget him, in less than a year’s time. He’ll be remembered at family gatherings, and whenever his friends felt nostalgic. He’ll be a distant memory, forgotten and only resurrected at the livings’ will. And God, how he wished to have someone reassure him, help fight the demons, but that’s not how it works in real life. You have to tell people how you feel in order for them to comfort you, they can’t read minds.

He reached out to caress Enjolras’s curls, feeling tears sting his eyes. Will Enjolras move on when he dies? Will he find someone else to love? Will he even remember him ten years after his death? Will he be that lover he fondly looked back at, or someone who filled up his time for a while? What will people say at his funeral? Will they say that he touched anyone’s hearts? Changed their lives? Will anyone visit his grave? Or will it be just another abandoned headstone in the middle of an ocean of graves? What will the afterlife be like? If heaven and hell were real, where will he go? He wasn’t really a religious person, hadn’t been to church since he was ten, but he wasn’t exactly a bad person. Not bad enough to deserve hell at least.

And if he does end up going to hell, then that’s no comfort. Being plunged from one hell only to be thrown into another.  _ ‘But at least this world has some good things,’  _ he thought as he pressed a gentle kiss on Enjolras’s cheek and got up to look at the bookshelves covering half of the room. Half of them were Enjolras’s, a mixture of philosophy, history and law books, but the other half was his. He traced his fingers over the paperbacks’ spines, distinguishing them by the moonlight. 

He smiled fondly as he looked at the Harry Potter books, memories of reading the books, laughing and crying as he made his way through the pages running through his head. These books helped helped him through the awkward couple of years that were known as middle school, helped him deal with bullying from his peers and teachers, his friendlessness and the struggle of pasting a smile on his face. Then there were the Shadowhunter Chronicles, a series that had made him yell with joy and bawl his eyes out in agony. He’ll never forget the times he rolled his eyes at Jace’s antics and awed at Magnus and Alec, and God, is he thankful that Izzy put her pride down and admitted her feelings for Simon, though Will Herondale will always be his favourite. That brat everyone hated but loved, who did his best to push everyone away and yet never managed it. His selflessness, running to the institute and away from his family to protect them, accepting the fact that he’s a walking death sentence and yet allowing himself one thing; a parabatai.

Then there was the Maze Runner series, a hate letter to W.I.C.K.E.D. A series of heart wrenching teenage boys that struggle against a corrupt world, only wanting to survive. And Thomas and Newt, the sleepless nights he spent reading fanfiction about them because canon hadn’t done them justice, and God, the nights that he spent crying over the fact that Newt and Sonya never got to know that they were siblings. 

He let out a snort that was followed by a few tears when his eyes fell on the Twilight series. He never made it to the last book, but he’d actually enjoyed the first three ones, and yet he’s still spent his time hating on them when he was in the Harry Potter fandom. And then there was Divergent. He had loved the books, not enough to reread them though, sci-fi wasn’t his favourite genre, but he gave it a chance. He never hates on the Divergent characters and even likes looking at edits about them sometimes, but rereading the books was out of question. 

A glint caught his eye and he followed it to find himself staring at the Hunger Games books. He liked them a tad bit more than Divergent, and had never hated them all the same. All these pages held precious memories and he’ll never let them go. The Percy Jackson books, Red Queen, Lord of the Rings, -hell even the Rold Dahl books, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Dork Diaries, were all close to his heart, and he won’t exchange them for the world. 

But all these works and characters were immortalized, on these papers, on theatre screens, in fanfiction and fanart. They’ll last till the end of time, and if not till then then for at least another hundred years. As much as the characters comforted him, they’ll comfort other people, be their heroes. They won’t follow him in death because, as much as he hated to admit it, -and as empty as the words felt- they weren’t real. 

He didn’t know what the afterlife was like, but if anything, he was sure that it didn’t have the same things as this world, or else there would be no point. He won’t be able to listen to the songs that got him through his parents’ fights or the ones that helped him get up in the morning. He won’t be able to do anything, especially if he was in eternal torture.

A soft groan came from the bed and he turned to see Enjolras making a grabby hand at the empty side of the bed. He smiled and went over to his lover, getting in bed and wrapping his arms around him, his smile widening when Enjolras made a happy sound. His thoughts will never be banished by the knowledge that he has a world to live in now and people to love and love him back, and he was in no way content with that, but he didn’t really have a say in the matter, and there was nothing he could do about that.

And so life went on, Grantaire lived and loved and, as predicted, died at twenty-five. His funeral was a quiet affair, his friends wept but his lover sat motionless, still in denial. Years passed and his friends got married happily, always remembering him at Christmas and Thanksgiving. But Enjolras never forgot him, not for a moment, and it was all he could do to keep going and not follow his lover.

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I wanted to keep it realistic. Grantaire was perfectly healthy, he didn’t have cancer or any other health issue, sometimes people just die, out of nowhere, and there is nothing we can do about it. Take Cameron Boyce as an example; while he did have a health condition, his situation wasn’t really bad, but something just happened in a moment and then he was gone. I don’t know if Dove Cameron has really made peace with his death and I don’t know if she’s trying to make herself see a reason to go on with all her Instagram posts, but it’s touching how dearly she loved Cameron Boyce, and it’s more than any of us will ever get. (The message might seem vaguely familiar to you from The Fault In Our Stars) He only had twenty years, but he made more of them than any of us could hope to. This fic was not written with Cameron Boyce in mind, but he is a pretty good example for the message I’m trying to convey.


End file.
